


When the lights go out (run away with me)

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Engagement, Female-presenting Aziraphale in the second chapter, Gender disobedience, Genderfluid Character, I want to read about my wife, Masks revealing just as much as they conceal, Motorcycles, Multi, Rakish angels, Romance, The Dowling years, Undercover and in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 13:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20210674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: “Run away with me,” Francis said, so low that Nanny could barely hear him. Francis was still holding his teacup, steam no longer rising from the tea. “Just for the night. I’ll bring you back by midnight.”“What?” Nanny said, too gobsmacked to do anything else. “Where are we even going?”“That’s not a no,” Francis said, putting down his teacup. His hair was a mess of curls, pulled back into tiny bun. “I’ll show you.”“I feel like we are going to elope,” Nanny joked, unable to stop smiling as they stood up, tea forgotten. Her silk pajamas changed into a green silk dress as she stepped away from the table, a metal flower crown appearing in Francis’s hair with its delicate glass flowers. “Are we?”The smile on Francis’s face was nothing short of rakish as he adjusted his red cravat and the dark suit that had replaced his gardening outfit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadHatter13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadHatter13/gifts).

The thing was, that people tend not to notice domestic staff much. Staff was supposed to be there to outsource things you did not have time to do or did not wish to do, Mr. Dowling had reasoned. They provided a certain service. A few bodyguards to make sure that he didn’t die on the job, a driver to get him to meetings and to the airport, a chef because Mrs. Dowling liked to host dinner parties and detested the idea of cooking, a nanny for Warlock and a gardener that took care of the grounds.

Sometimes the people that raised children were a frightening Satanic Nanny and decidedly odd-looking magical gardener. To look at them, you’d think that such a neat and stern person would dislike a scruffy and soft one, but they could often be spotted standing beside each other and talking as Warlock played and observed the world around him.

The chef would make breakfast and dinner in between going back to work at the restaurant they worked for, leaving behind sugar-free and gluten-free steaming pancakes and protein smoothies and porridge. The Dowlings never ate in the dining room together if they could help it, and certainly not with their son or the staff. Instead they would take their food to their offices or simply not eat much at all while at the house, preferring to go out to brunch or eat out with colleagues.

The bodyguards would wolf down their breakfast while Nanny watched Warlock gleefully throw porridge all around the dining room, where only about half of it ended up in his mouth and the rest left splatters on the bodyguards’ suits, the linen and the ceiling.The bodyguards never said anything much about the mess, citing the terrifying smirk on Nanny’s face and how they worried that she might impale their feet with those sharp-looking snakeskin stiletto boots she sometimes wore instead of the sensible heels. Also, because Brother Francis the gardener would make encouraging sounds whenever Warlock actually managed to stick the spoon in his mouth and then he’d stare at them with those off-colored eyes until they found themselves clapping.

One of the former bodyguards had once made the mistake of elbowing Francis and saying something crude about Nanny, gesturing towards her as she’d been teaching Warlock how to ride his tricycle at a truly frightening speed on the pavement. That bodyguard had almost been flash-fried by lightning that struck from a clear sky, something that had deeply impressed Warlock and unnerved Nanny for a split second before she’d grinned at Francis.

Seeing Brother Francis carrying the little kid on his shoulders while Nanny inspected the garden in the manner of a particularly nasty drill-sergeant as slugs and mice launched themselves into the sky in an attempt to flee, none of the bodyguards understood why Mrs. Dowling showed such little interest in her kid. Warlock was laughing, gripping Francis’s hat and curls as the gardener showed him the finches and sparrows in the trees.

“All the birds should be cherished, Warlock,” said Brother Francis, rolling up the sleeves of his floral shirt and adjusting his blue cravat. “Everyone on Earth too, in fact-“

“Nanny too?” Warlock asked, pointing at where Nanny was threatening the radishes.

“Of course,” Francis said softly. “Nanny too.”

“Mommy says that she thought gardeners were supposed to be young and strong,” Warlock said as Francis placed him on the soft grass. “And work with their shirts off.”

“Hm,” said Francis, thinking of the form he’d planned on donning before settling on this one. Bearded and sturdy, clad in the sort of clothes that could have lasted centuries and able to break out of prisons and haul logs. In the end he’d decided that looking harmless and a bit silly was a better bet. “I prefer to wear mine.”

“Nanny says that it is smart of you to wear a hat so that you don’t burn in the sun,” Warlock informed Francis, tapping his own little straw hat. “We match!”

“We do,” Francis said, smiling. “Not that the Lord’s sun would dare to harm you.”

“Would you fight the sun if it tried?” Warlock asked, taking off his shoes and throwing his socks to the ground. Then he stomped around in the wet grass in his bare feet, looking delighted.

“I’d win,” Francis said.

“Fighting the sun?” Nanny asked, spreading out a red blanket and laying it on the ground. “Really?”

“If we teamed up, we’d be unstoppable,” Francis said, sitting down on the blanket in far less dignified way than Nanny. Warlock ran around in his bare feet, having found a wooden toy car painted grey and black and was pretending that it could fly.

“Hold onto that dream, angel,” Nanny said, leaning against Francis so that their shoulders touched. They stayed there for a long time, Francis’s hand covering Nanny’s hand as they watched their kid play in the garden. It became a memory that lodged itself deep in their cores, something bright to find when the darkness was too close to bear.

They’d never spent so much time together in the same place. This was not getting drunk together when they’d fucked up, or lunches once a century, give or take.

That night Nanny found Francis sitting in the kitchens, with leftover shaving cream on his cheeks and a steaming cup of tea in front of him. The sideburns gone for the night, his hair longer and curlier than it had ever been and in a small bun. He was sitting so still that most of the other staff would have assumed that he was meditating or praying, seeing that his eyes looked off and his hair brighter than it did during the day. As if he was listening to some far-off music.

She sat down opposite him in her sensible dressing gown over her black silk pajamas, watching as he stared at the sky as if he was a crystal vase with cracks laden through, waiting for that final crack to unmake him.

And she waited for him to come back from wherever he’d been, watched him settle back into his body and remember where and when he was. Nanny could be more patient than Crowley, just as Francis could be more tactile than Aziraphale ever could.

A white umbrella in Francis’s hand shielding them both from the storm. Walking arm in arm like in a period film. Waves and smiles.

“There you are,” Nanny said, sipping her own tea.

“Apologies,” Francis replied, looking flustered and picking up his teacup to hide his face. But he did not move away, as he would have done had they been in the bookshop. Instead he stayed where he was and breathed in the scent of the apple blossoms just outside the window. “I was just-“

“Does She answer you?” Nanny did not ask.

“Could you go up there and demand an all-access card to the hall where She keeps her Plan?” was another one.

“We are crushing this,” she said instead, letting herself hiss and seeing the smile appear on Francis’s face. The smile of a partner in a school project where you are both winging it so hard that you’ve started actually studying in your dreams.

“You think so?” he asked, wriggling in the same way he’d been doing since the they’d met.

“Yeah,” Nanny said, opening her jaw as wide as it could go and eating the teacup whole.

For a long while, Nanny thought about how she’d never really seen Aziraphale change his form much at all. And now when he had done so, he’d opted for looking harmless and approachable and odd.

There was no trace of the fashionable office-wear that Heaven so favored about Francis.

When Nanny looked up from the table, where she had pretended be inspecting the tea pot, she saw that Francis was looking at her too.

“Run away with me,” Francis said, so low that Nanny could barely hear him. Francis was still holding his teacup, steam no longer rising from the tea. “Just for the night. I’ll bring you back by midnight.”

“What?” Nanny said, too gobsmacked to do anything else. “Where are we even going?”

“That’s not a no,” Francis said, putting down his teacup. His hair was a mess of curls, pulled back into tiny bun. “I’ll show you.”

“I feel like we are going to elope,” Nanny joked, unable to stop smiling as they stood up, tea forgotten. Her silk pajamas changed into a green silk dress as she stepped away from the table, a metal flower crown appearing in Francis’s hair with its delicate glass flowers. “Are we?”

The smile on Francis’s face was nothing short of rakish as he adjusted his red cravat and the dark suit that had replaced his gardening outfit.

It was Francis that reached out, his hands calloused and eyes older than anything on this Earth. Nanny took it, thinking of the temptations that Aziraphale had performed over the years as they stepped out into the cold night air. Not that they were breathing much. Not that her heart appeared to be malfunctioning because it was beating too loudly in her chest as they walked beneath the stars.

Had a human being seen them, they would have looked oddly blurred because humans were not designed to properly perceive the faint glow burning the air itself around the two beings outside the house.

Francis limped onward, the wound that he’d received in the Celestial War not hidden in this form. The gravel crunched underneath their shoes, too loud and too low at once.

Nanny suspected that Francis would have struck down the Devil himself had he been in their way. You do not tell an angel that will lie to God’s face that the odds against him are not good. Because he’ll just ignore you.

Francis’s teeth gleamed in the moonlight as the lights come on inside the house and Mrs. Dowling stood in the window, looking at how Nanny and Francis were gripping each other’s hands so hard that their bones were complaining. It felt like Nanny is coming apart at the seams, scales climbing her ankles and back while Francis dragged a beaten-up motorcycle out of his gardening shed. Then he threw her a helmet.

“We’ll tell her that this was a dream,” Francis said, climbing on top of the old thing.

“About us running away with each other?” Nanny asked as blue light enveloped them both. She should, technically speaking, be burning alive because of all the holiness. She is very much not. “Or eloping? Both?”

Nanny wrapped her hands around Francis’s soft middle as the bike roared to life and lifted off the ground. On her hands are rings made of starlight.

They fly though the air, laughing brightly as they picked up speed.

They are too old for this. They are too young for this.

The world was small below them and huge below them and they remembered all of it.

Francis made a soft sound, covering Nanny’s hand with his own while keeping the other one on the handlebar.

It was fresh orange juice at dawn while still being wrapped in new sheets. It was the first autumn carrots. It was the sound of the spring breeze in the grass. It was the soft footfalls of foals and kits and mice on the mountain. Heaven would never compare to any of it.

They breathed in air that was fresher than anything they’d gotten in their lungs for around 6000 years. Owls greeted them politely by screeching as they swooped by the motorcycle.

Nanny pressed closer to Francis, her thighs against his and leaning her head on his shoulder.

“Old serpent,” Francis muttered, fond.

The rings on Francis’s hands matched hers.

“We’re going to keep these,” Nanny stated.

Francis’s hands were rough and had spent the afternoon throwing their kid into the air. Letting him fall, again and again, always to be caught.

Nanny had not cried, not one little bit.

No stink of lava, no sense of being torn apart, just Nanny and Francis in the garden, making promises they’d burn themselves alive trying to fulfill.

Nanny had miracled up some ice cream after Warlock had sat down on the red blanket on the grass, letting him lose himself in quality vanilla that could not be bought for love nor money. And she’d slipped her hand in Francis’s hand. Then she stuck out her tongue to smell the familiar scent of an angel that had looked at helpless people and given away his sword so that they could be safe and sound.

If they were going to be memories to Warlock, locked away at the core of his soul, they damn well better be good ones.

The bike landed with a thud at the first strike of midnight, the silk of Nanny’s dress cool against her legs as she very much did not fall of the motorcycle. She adjusted her dress as Francis put the bike away, delicately wiping oil and dirt off his fingers with a handkerchief before he stepped towards her and caressed her face as gently as if it was made of spun glass. Nanny pulled him even closer, grabbing his waist in a moment that lasted only a few seconds but was truly a slice of eternity.

Her hands were trembling as Francis did not move away but stood still as an oak until she pressed her hands against his back and breathed out.

Pins dropped from her hair as Francis undid her updo. Hair fell around her face, pins lost in the gravel for all time.

“There you are,” Francis said, as if he’d just found her after a hundred years away.

“Good evening,” Nanny managed, freeing Francis’s hair from its bun in a single movement. She buried her hands in it, tracing his skull. His breath hot on her neck, his eyes calm.

They kissed like they would drown if they did not, crushing their mouths together and almost falling over. Since neither of them had to breathe they did not have to come up for air.

It was later, when their grip on each other was not such that their knuckles shone in the moonlight that they pulled apart, faces the color of very expensive tomatoes.

They wandered towards the house eventually, making jokes and glancing at each other as if to reassure themselves that the other one was still around and in fact not a dream.

It was only when Nanny was in bed, back in her silk pajamas with a cup of tea on the bedside table that Francis had left behind that she looked at her hands, which still had those rings. The metal was too bright to have been made by human hands.

They were still there the next day. And the day after that.

On Francis fingers too, which Warlock had admired when the gardener had taken his gloves off to show him the roses before Warlock had begun climbing the trees.

Nanny’s heart always decided to do a very undemonic dance when she saw that gleam of starlight when Francis waved at her from the garden, or when they sat down together at a nearby bench. But then again, that had always been her response, ever since they’d stood together in a very different Garden.


	2. Chapter 2

Some days were just too hot to wear trousers, to say nothing of wearing a suit. Aziraphale opened her closet, pulling out drawers and hangers until she found a short-sleeved shirt. Her sensible beige shorts were already ironed and lay on the chair beside the closet. When Aziraphale took the shirt off the hanger something at the very back of the closet fell to the bottom in a heap.

It was a light blue dress.

Not the heavy tartan one she’d sometimes eye when the autumn chill set in, before putting on her usual outfit. This one was light and soft, with a roomy skirt.

How long had it been since she’d bought it?

Over two decades, certainly. She’d been shopping around for an outfit for Brother Francis, thinking of spending all those hot days outside in the sunshine.

Aziraphale patted it free of dust, pleased that it had pockets and went all the way down to her calves. Not that anyone had seen her calves in a few hundred years.

Then she put the dress on, carefully adjusting the fabric until it sat right on her body.

She ran her fingers through her curly hair, breathing out as she pulled at the sleeves. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she dug out the silk stockings she hadn’t worn since the Napoleonic Wars.

The stockings were as soft as they had been, all those years ago when she’d attended a ball and happened to sit beside Jane Austen. Now that had been a deeply pleasurable evening indeed, making witty remarks about every single rake in the room and watching Austen flirt with the ladies. Austen had been very insistent on knowing how Mr. Francis Fell’s meeting with Mr. Crowley had played out, since Francis had been so excited about it when they’d met earlier that year. It had been a world away from the scent of salt and gunpowder.

Becoming Francis had always been a certain kind of a relief, away from the rules of Heaven. As Francis he could seduce everyone he pleased and look as rakish as he wanted. He could lounge in sofas all around the world, with his beautiful waistcoat and a dashing smile. He could con all the aristocrats he came across into handing over their priceless books, flirt with a roomful of naval officers who were in the possession of fine wine and smoke cigarettes with local artists and authors.

Aziraphale put on her slippers and headed outside before she could justify taking all of this off and just putting on her old suit again. After all, she had promised Crowley to have lunch with him today, asking him to meet her at a new flower shop that she’d walked by the other day and seen something very interesting. And besides, Crowley could never resist the chance to get new plants.

Crowley parked in front of the flower shop, taking in the shiny new sign in front and the row of thriving potted plants and succulents in the window. All kinds of bouquets had been wrapped and delicately placed in boxes by the door.

He headed inside, already planning how to arrange his new plants by the older ones to make sure that they would not get any ideas about displeasing Crowley. Perhaps he could get away with putting an aloe vera plant on top of one of Aziraphale’s bookcases, if he was sneaky enough.

Looking over the sea of green leaves and flowers, there was no beige coat in sight. And yet he could sense an angelic presence. The shop was full of customers inspecting bags of fertilizer and soil, admiring flowers and buying decorative pots along with their new plants. A good shop, then.

The cash register pinged at regular intervals and the windows were as clean as they could get. Even the greeting card stand was not making horrific sounds when it was turned, as they tended to do universally. A tiny wood car was on small shelf behind the register, the paint chipped but still visibly black and grey.

“Right,” Crowley said, looking at a dapper person delicately arranging cacti on a small table. “Have you seen someone blonde and around ye-tall?”

The person nodded, dusting their hands.

“Great,” Crowley signed, noting the hearing aids. “I’m looking for my-“

Then he saw Aziraphale, who was browsing the shelves on books on gardening and plant care, wearing a light blue dress he’d never seen before.

“…my wife.”

“I think you’ve already spotted her,” the clerk signed, smiling.

Crowley’s hands fidgeted, brushing the leaves of a nearby spider plant as he watched Aziraphale miracle the book clean and then make fifteen plants healthier than they had been a few seconds ago. Her plump arms were covered in gauzy blue material that ended just below the elbow, revealing her wrists and forearms.

The last time he’d gotten a good look at both those wrists and those ankles had been in Eden.

“Hey, Aziraphale,” Crowley managed. “Nice dress.”

Aziraphale turned, the skirt twirling around her legs. Crowley fought the scales that threatened to climb up his neck alongside the blush.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, eyes bright. “Crowley.”

And before Crowley could say anything else or even attempt to buy some plants, Aziraphale took him by the shoulders and pushed him towards the back of the store.

“What are you-“ Crowley began, scowling.

“Look,” Aziraphale said, her voice hushed as the plants rustled and they came to a stop. “Over there by the roses.”

A young man with his long hair pulled back into a proper bun was advising a customer, dusting earth off his fingers by making a mess of his sensible black apron.

“It’s our boy,” Aziraphale whispered, triumphant.

“It is,” Crowley breathed, taking off his sunglasses.

When Warlock looked up and saw them, it was as if the years had not passed at all and they were still all in the garden among the roses and sweet-smelling grass. As they had never left at all. In some ways, of course, they never had.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a Carly Rae Jepsen song called "Run away with me."
> 
> I want to thank the wonderful Madhatter13 for betaing this fic and for their support when it came to me writing this fic, having read the very first version of it. It was grand time, writing most of it in a chat and getting the reactions in real time. 
> 
> Comments greatly appreciated and loved.


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